


Legacy

by SapphyreLily



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen, Lots of Minor Character Death, Medieval AU, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 06:59:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11481096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: He strives to be the best he can be, but not for the reason they think.They think he is crazy, but all he wants is to be free.





	Legacy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bianoyami (poeticalcreation)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poeticalcreation/gifts).



> Based on [You Will Know My Name by ARCH ENEMY](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Y-J7sBT_no)
> 
> (Yes, Bia dropped me a song again :'D)

A slow awakening, a tiny breath of sentience.

A careful realisation, a gasp of admiration, a quickening heartbeat.

_That is what I want to be._

\-----

But the path to success is thorny, and no one will help him on his way.

Instead, words mock and leer, eyes of peers squinting back over shoulders, mouths covered as they laugh. Not one will help him – not the older children, whom he watches in secret, not the ones who are his age, who laugh at him for thinking himself worthy. Everyone, everyone around him, they look upon his scrabbling in the dirt and pour forth more insults, more taunts, more degradations.

Not even the elders would listen to him, not even the ones who are supposed to teach him.

 _Be a scribe,_ they tell him. _You aren’t made for that sort of work._

His hands clench in the folds of his robes, eyes stinging. _But–_

 _Warriors are born, not made._ Every face, each pair of eyes, they ridicule him and his ideas. _You are too slight to ever be helpful anywhere on the field. Stay behind. Or at best, be a medic._

He doesn’t want to be a medic. He wants to be the best he can be.

He knows he’s not going to listen to them.

\-----

There is no one who can train him, so he trains himself, reading books and finding techniques, running to the field dummies to practice. Morning for sword combat, afternoon for archery, night for magic spells.

He hears the whispers and feels their looks as they pass by his little training ground, all the children gathered round to laugh.

 _What are you playing at?_ They call. _You can’t be a warrior and an archer and a mage! No one’s that strong._

_You’re not that strong._

He doesn’t listen, just keeps cutting down dummy after dummy, strengthening his grip enough that he can swing well.

He won’t be like them, those pampered rich children of nobles. Who refuse to wear armour, who refuse to learn though war is on their backs. Who want to play and eat and get fat, and leave the fighting to their slaves.

He won’t be like that.

He can’t be like that.

He was spared because of his light skin, but he knows better.

He will fight.

He will be strong.

He will break free.

\-----

He is broken a thousand times, not just by blade, but by arrow and spell and hand. He finds instructors in the best of men, begging them to teach him, begging because he wants to be _like them._

The lie makes him want to throw up.

But they lap it up, these men inflated with their own sense of worth, who see nothing beyond the surface than a scrawny boy who wants to prove himself to his peers. They drink his lies eagerly, but their hands are harder than he has ever known, and he comes close to breaking, too many times.

He will not break. Steel tempered with fire is only made stronger.

He is a honed blade, the sharpest of its kind. A poisoned arrow, its aim straight and true. The most lethal of spells, that can kill or maim or bring a man to his knees.

He is young and yet untested, and he will only grow stronger.

\-----

He pads round the edges of the corridors, in the darkness where the servants are supposed to walk. His cloak is drawn tight around him, hood drawn up, hiding his features, and he approaches the quarters he knows best – the place he is welcomed.

He lights a tiny flame in the palm of his hand to guide his eyes, unlocking the door with a press and spark of his fingers. It swings inwards without a sound, and small hands hold on to his, pressing him forward, the door shut behind him.

And he whispers to them. Of freedom. Of things put right. Of never being under their rule again.

The gathered faces nod back at him, their hands ready with sigils of protection, sparse belongings swung over backs. They reach out to him a last time, to touch the edge of his cloak, to graze his skin, to glean a blessing from him.

He smiles sadly at that. He is not a blessing, though he will be their saviour if he succeeds.

They rush down the servant pathways, footsteps muted by his spells. There are carriages and horses waiting, full of supplies, the last of their preparations.

He sees them off, and turns back to the castle, where the drugged inhabitants lie in their beds.

He salutes them mockingly, then runs after his people, opening a doorway into their safe haven.

He will return later, but first he will see them off.

\-----

He wakes the next morning to a storm of chaos, and hides in their midst as ladies and men scurry about and wail, unable to survive even the tiniest of chores by themselves. He smiles to himself, never stepping forward, keeping his eyes down and letting them sweep him away.

But still they find him, the ones who mocked him before, the ones who will never stop chasing after his blood.

So he turns on them as they have always been against him, blade catching blade, cutting, slicing; injuring but never killing. Their lives would be worse if they are left alive.

He fights with fist and blade to get out of the hall, drawing up shields against the spells thrown at him, deflecting projectiles back at their owners. Dozens fall, but more stand in their place, crazed and panicked, hungry for justice, starving for someone to pin the blame on.

He doesn’t see their faces as they go down, not the hate-filled expressions that have always mocked him, not the flash of pale skin beneath slashed clothing. They have been nothing but disgusting to him, and he will not tolerate their enmity any longer.

It is too fast before he is out of the fray, dancing his way to the king’s throne, balancing atop its seat.

 _The war is on your backs,_ he sneers, though only a handful are listening. _They will be here the day after tomorrow, and we will see how you fight without your disposable army._

He disappears, but he will be back – watching them die at their own hands will be as satisfying as killing them himself.

\-----

On the dusk of the morrow, he hides amongst them to watch the enemy appear on the horizon, them quaking in their boots, them shaking as they hold their weapons the wrong way. The captains call for more archers, more warriors, more mages – there are so many positions to fill, but no one will step forward.

He wonders what response he’ll get if he steps up.

(He doesn’t need to.)

(They call for him.)

The captain of the guard must be desperate, to be yelling his name amongst the gathered nobles, the ones whom he turned against each other, the ones who he injured not long ago. He seems almost crazed, screaming for the adopted child of all to come and stand as their front defence, as their _only_ defence.

The others shout back at him, waving off his concerns, drowning out his calls. But he will not be silenced, binding and muting them with spells, panting and raging.

_If you want to turn away the only one who mastered sword, bow and spell, be my guest! But I will survive, and the boy is my hope._

_Come out here and face me, you bastard! Come, child! Show us what you are made of, and what we have taught you._

He smiles a little. Perhaps, he will fight. If only to show off.

He steps forward, parting the angered nobles easily.

\-----

It feels entirely too dramatic, for him to be walking out in front, the rest of the captains a half-step behind him. But it is the only way they will agree to leave the castle, agree to walk to their deaths.

When the first blow strikes, it comes too quickly.

An arrow, headed straight for him. It is too slow, and he catches it out of the air, drawing his own bow and sending it back to them, hitting the archer squarely between the eyes.

It takes a few seconds for the enemy to catch themselves, to realise that their archer has fallen, that it is his own arrow that struck him down.

And then, they turn back, eyes blazing, tension steeling their muscles.

He smiles, and lifts a hand to beckon them forward.

The cavalry screams, a horn is sounded, and they swarm forward.

He bends his knee, and shoots three blazing arrows into their midst.

_Go._

\-----

 His side is losing, he knows, but it is what he wanted all along.

But still he dances in the enemy’s midst, shooting arrows where he finds any, slicing through hamstrings if he can’t, holding back stabs with shields of magic.

He sees the terror on their faces when he comes after them, when he alternates between weapon sets, when he can hold back five men at once, punching through their formation easily. He throws more punches than they do, yet they are never dead, just unconscious.

(He cannot take their lives.)

(They are just following orders.)

It feels like hours that he spends on the field – spinning, dropping, attacking; parrying, defending, holding back. The only life he is interested in preserving is his own, but no one would believe that, with the sea of bodies left in his wake.

Yet on the outskirts of the battle, close to where he will make his escape, he turns back a last time to appraise the mess that has been left behind, the mess brought about by two similar groups of people forgetting that they have one mouth to talk, but two ears to listen.

The sun breaks through the clouds for a brief moment, and it lights up the carnage – a splattered canvas he can no longer bear to be a part of. He salutes them and jumps off the edge, letting the winds take him away.

His cloak catches on the rocks before it is whisked away, but of the man, there is no trace.

\-----

_In the aftermath, when both sides have lost heavily and there are but one or two left, they sit and share a waterskin, and vow to leave each other be._

_But before the invaders leave, they have questions._

Who is that god you summoned? _They ask,_ The one of steel and wood and ether, the one who cut down our men so fast?

_And the remnants of the clan, they look at each other, and laugh bitterly._

There is no god, _they tell them._ He is but a slave boy, and a master of combat.

_They do not believe them, but no one would, not after they had seen him in action. The terror, that man, that demigod – he was simply too frightening._

What is his name? _One of the younger one dares to ask, and the destroyed clan, they spit it like it is a curse._

The favoured one. The rescued one. The one pardoned.

The intelligent, the diligent, the persevering.

Kenjirou.

We will find him, and make him pay.


End file.
